


Burns

by NaitiaClo960



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Sexual Assault, Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Language, Broken Dean Winchester, Comforting Castiel (Supernatural), Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Panicking Dean Winchester, Self Confidence Issues, Traumatized Dean Winchester, Violence, sexual harassment recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaitiaClo960/pseuds/NaitiaClo960
Summary: Dean watched a drop of condensation slip down his pint glass, joining the small puddle on the bar. He and Castiel had had a fight. It wasn’t much, a pittance if you asked him. But it was apparently enough for Castiel to demand several days away from each other.Dean was determined to drown his despair and resentment in alcohol when a man leaning on the same counter as him offered him a drink. If this man wanted to help him in his quest to drink more than was reasonable, who was he to prevent it? Nothing bad could happen anyway, it was just a few drinks...





	Burns

**Author's Note:**

> Hello peoples!
> 
> Second OS of this collection, quite in the same way as the first one. Dean is hurt, Cas is perfect, everything hurts... But happy ending, yaaay :D.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to Tibbins, who did an exceptional job on this one (and who probably reads thoughts btw considering her corrections, love you). Thank you to my little Charlie, who helped me a lot by taking on her free time to advise me. AND thank you to misha-moose-dean-burger-lover on Tumblr who also inspired me for this OS. Lot of love to y'all!
> 
> Please mind the tags. Enjoy!

Dean watched a drop of condensation slip down his pint glass, joining the small puddle on the bar. He pursed his lips, sighed, and swallowed the rest of his beer before waving to the waiter to serve him something stronger. Tonight, he wanted to drink beyond reason. Hell, he didn’t want to be reasonable at all, but to drink until he briefly forgot all of the problems constantly spinning in his head.

He and Castiel had had a fight. It wasn’t much, a pittance if you asked him. But it was apparently enough for Castiel to demand several days away from each other. Dean, in a moment of idiotic fury, had yelled that if his presence upset the former angel so much, then it was better for him to leave. Which he had done, cautiously avoiding the angel’s pained gaze on him. They had just settled a case, but neither of them wanted to go back home, as that involved staying close to each other in the confined space of the bunker. They needed room. And so, Dean had left the motel room where they were staying and moved to a different motel on the other side of town. After two days spent casting dirty looks at his cell phone (which remained stubbornly silent) and going on several aimless drives around the city, he had decided to go to a bar downtown. And there he was, pathetically down in the dumps, sitting at the counter and contemplating groups of enthusiastic friends and disgustingly happy couples laughing around him.

He sighed briefly before passing a hand on his face, stopped to rub his eyelids and lightly soothe the tingling of his eyes while a good old drink of Jack Daniels was placed in front of him. He was tired. Mentally more than physically, but his current emotional state was undeniably affecting his body. He’d slept poorly, his body was sore, and his ability to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds made him a sorry excuse for a hunter right now. Dean pressed his chin to his hand and grabbed his drink with a practised move.

"Hard day?"

The voice had flared from the seat next to him and it took Dean a while to understand that it was addressed to him. He turned his head to meet the compassionate look of his bar-mate, who was completely turned towards him, sipping a stout. The man was just as tall as he was, presumptuous in appearance and well-built, staring straight.

"Sorry, what?" Dean grumbled, not inclined to any conversation whatsoever.

"I said..." repeated the man slowly, nodding towards his fifth evening drink. "Hard day?"

Dean looked into the bottom of his glass and laughed without joy before taking a long sip. "I guess you could say that."

The man nodded his head solemnly and put his drink back on the counter, now totally focused on Dean. "I figured. Luckily for you, this bar is the perfect place to decompress.”

"You say that like you're a regular," Dean replied, raising one smirking eyebrow toward the other. The man burst out with a loud laugh.

"Me? Oh no. Not this particular bar anyway, I’m the kind of guy who moves all the time. But, you know… that’s what people say." He shrugged, the gesture looked almost apologetic.

"Uh-uh." Dean grunted, not interested in the local sayings of this tasteless town. He finished his glass with a single gulp, enjoying the burning of the liquid in his throat.

"C’mon, let me buy you a drink, you look like you could really use it, buddy."

Dean was about to protest, but the man was already calling the bartender to order another whisky. He glanced at his companion and decided to let it happen. After all, he came here to get drunk, didn’t he?

He stood up a little on his stool and sighed, throwing an awkward little smile at his neighbour who was still staring at him. What the hell? What was wrong with spending the evening getting bought liquor? If this man wanted to spend his money to help Dean drown his sorrows, he wasn’t going to stop him.

Once served again, he raised his glass.

"To shitty days, then."

The man smiled, then imitated him.

* * *

The glass slammed on the counter as Dean put it down sharply, swallowing loudly the end of what was probably his fourth free whiskey. He uttered a triumphant exclamation when his mouth was totally empty and slapped the bar with his hand.

The man on his right—whose name he still didn’t know, not that he had asked—gave an amused chuckle and calmly lowered his stout, only his second of the evening.

"I got to admit, you’re more able to hold your drink than I thought, Dean. Come on, last one for the road. Bartender!" He exclaimed, raising his arm again to catch the man's attention.

Dean shook his head and grabbed his arm with difficulty, his muscles numb from the alcohol. "No, no, no... I'm going... I'll stop there, uh, otherwise I'll never get to my room in one piece." He slurred, catching himself in the mirror behind the bar he saw a stupid smile on his lips, his cheeks slightly pink with alcohol. He had already ingested far too much to straighten up, but falling asleep at the counter of a bar was too sad, even for him. He should have stopped after the first drink, but the conversation flowed easy and he let himself be carried away.

His companion seemed to gauge him for a moment before slowly lowering his arm, a strange smile on his face. "It's up to you. I hope you're not going to drive? Considering your condition..."

Dean cut him off with a finger up in front of him, his eyes unable to focus on anything.

"Came walking." He mumbled.

The other man's smile widened. "Really?" He said, seeming satisfied with something. The man seemed much more lucid than him, but that would make sense. After all, if the poor guy had tried to match Dean drink for drink he’d have probably had to have called an ambulance by now. The guy was an adult, he did what he wanted. It was his money, and maybe he just wanted some company rather than drinking alone at a bar. Dean could understand that...

"Yup." Dean sniggered, prolonging the word far too long and popping the "p", not even knowing what was funny in his answer.

His companion raised his eyebrows and continued to watch him. If Dean had been a little (much) more aware, he would have probably been bothered by the intense, almost predatory look in this guy’s eyes and would have cut the conversation short, but Cas had made him pretty much immune to intensity and right now he saw three glasses rather than one in front of him and he couldn’t really spare his drinking buddy much thought, his body was really, really heavy. He frowned and concentrated intensely on the glass, trying to somehow reduce its spinning.

Shit, he really was tired. Usually, some beer and a few whiskeys would not put him in such a state. But then again, nothing was normal about this and Dean didn’t have the energy to think more than that. He felt good, light, his body more and more slumped against the counter. Maybe he hadn’t drunk _enough_ to forget Castiel—he even doubted it was possible, to forget those eyes, so blue and so sad when he left—but he laughed stupidly for nothing. And it was a start.

The man next to him put several bills next to his unfinished beer and began to get up.

"Come on, I'll walk you out." He said.

It wasn’t a question and Dean nodded silently, the room rocking again. He made a gesture to get up from his stool, but his muscles protested at the sudden demand and he slipped ungracefully from his seat. The man barely caught him, passing his arms under his armpits to support him. Without a word, he put Dean's arm around his shoulders and helped him forward.

Dean growled. He still had that strange feeling of floating, but now that he was moving, he was now divided between the onset of a migraine and the urge to vomit. The room was spinning too fast, and the last rational part of his brain told him that it was definitely not _normal_.

"I..." He had more and more trouble articulating. _Not normal_. "S’okay, m’good. M’fine…"

The man tightened his hold around his hip and grabbed the arm that hung around his neck to raise him a little more.

"I know, it's okay." He simply answered, his voice suddenly distant.

Dean blinked a few times, exaggeratedly, trying to focus. The man hauled him towards the back door and led him through, the echoes of the discussions and the bursts of laughter faded almost immediately as the door closed behind them, plunging them into the silence of a city in the middle of the night.

Dean was totally slumped against the man and he was struggling to put one foot in front of the other. He narrowed his eyes, his vision swimming.

"Where?" He mumbled, unable to form more than that one word.

"Shhh." The other told him, forcing him to walk a little further down the alley in which they had landed.

The place was dark and strewn with rubbish overflowing from the huge dumpsters that surely belonged to the bar they had just left. An unpleasant smell reached Dean's nose and only increased his urge to vomit right where he stood, but he swallowed it down. Damn, what was going on…

He squinted to the left, towards the parking lot and the main road the bar sat on, but frowned again when the man did not direct them towards the street, but right, towards the end of the alley, which ended with a filthy fence and a half-rotted wooden palisade. His numb brain took several seconds to assimilate the message. Not normal _at all_.

A flash of clarity crossed his foggy mind and a ball of anxiety formed in his throat.

Dean gathered all his strength to pull himself away from the other man's grip and stick his fist in his face, panic taking over his fatigue, but he only managed to stagger over to the nearest dumpster. He leaned his weight against it and closed his eyes, feeling his way forwards, trying to move in the comforting, non-revolving darkness.

He knew this wasn’t normal and definitely not planned. He might be a borderline alcoholic but that gave him a hell of a tolerance level, it should have taken him at least another three whiskys to get him to even half this level of non-functioning. The realisation of what was really happening to him had the effect of a cold shower. An alarm had started ringing in a corner of his head and didn’t want to stop, piercing his eardrums, ringing in his skull. Stupid, he was so stupid.

Dean gritted his teeth and forced himself to open his eyes, his heart beating unpleasantly in his throat. The man seemed to have recovered from his surprise and took a step towards him, suddenly seeming much taller than before. Unless Dean’s legs slipping away gradually under him had something to do with it… A voice that sounded dangerously like his father whispered to him what a useless sack of trash he was right now, drunk and probably drugged, at the mercy of a perfect stranger in an isolated alleyway, this was how 60% of his cases started. He growled, furious with himself.

"Come on, it’s all right, Dean. Come here, I'll help you." Said the man soothingly, extending his hand in front of him, still advancing. His voice seemed threatening despite his soft tone and Dean felt like a wounded animal that the man was trying to sweeten up before breaking his neck.

"Kiss… my ass." He spat, trying to straighten weakly with the help of the dumpster.

The man smiled, but said nothing and without giving Dean the time to react, his brain definitely slowed by some substance that this asshole had managed to make him swallow, the man suddenly put his hands on Dean's shoulders and squeezed. Hard. The hunter clenched his teeth and hissed in pain before sending his fist almost blindly over his shoulder in the direction of his now-aggressor. He felt a grim satisfaction when he heard a sinister crack under his knuckles and the pressure on his shoulders disappeared.

"You dirty little bitch!" Roared the man. Dean staggered around to face him. Judging from the rivers of blood now streaming down the guy’s face, Dean was pretty sure he’d broken his nose; he smirked, this guy was clearly not used to his victims getting feisty. The alley pitched again, and he fell back against the dumpster, the pain in his skull doubled in intensity; what the hell had this guy given him?

A single second of inattention later and the man was back on him, rougher now, his grip stronger. Too strong for Dean’s anaesthetised muscles. He was thrown to the other side of the alley and collided with a wall, landing hard, hidden from the street by a pile of garbage cans. Now Dean was using all his strength just to remain conscious. He was pretty sure he’d hit his head against the brick but it was hard to tell; he’d fought drugged before, he’d fought injured, he’d fought things stronger and bigger and more dangerous than one slightly jacked guy with a pill or two in his pocket and a lecherous smile, but there was something else there in his head too, a new fear, or maybe a very old one, and it was stopping him from giving over his complete focus to the fight.

He barely moved when his assailant pressed himself against his body, pinning him to the wall with his hips. He grunted when the man began to remove his clothes: his jacket was yanked away, his plaid torn down to his elbows, and his t-shirt ripped at the collar when the man pulled it in two directions that it wasn’t designed to go. The man swore, he was obviously not as far-sighted as Dean had thought, unless it was the pain of his nose that disrupted his actions. Dean was jolted harshly back into reality as the man ran his cold, greedy hands under his shirt, pawing at the lower part of his belly and up his chest without any softness.

His body, so malleable, tensed suddenly and his eyes widened. He forced himself to fight the drug a little more and struggled wildly with all the energy left to him. _No_.

The urge to vomit had never been stronger when he finally realised what the other man wanted from him. He had not taken him to this alley to kill him or steal his possessions. It wasn’t even a creature bastard who had recognised him and wanted revenge. It was just a human being, a damn human who had drugged him and now wanted to enjoy his body in the back of a bar. As if he was just a hole in which to sink. His stomach lurched one last time before bile bubbled up his trachea and he let loose a guttural complaint before finally throwing up.

His assailant pulled back with a yell of disgust as Dean turned his guts onto the mixture of dirt and stone that was the ground of the alley, which was all manner of gross. When he had nothing left to vomit, he was unceremoniously yanked up by the torn collar of his shirt and shoved face-first into the wall a few paces further into the alley, away from the street. His throat burned horribly from the regurgitated alcohol and his head still wasn’t clear, his legs were wobbly and his arms seemed to have lost their strength as he was manhandled into the new position.

He felt that disgusting weight against his body again and might have vomited again just from that feeling when he felt the other man's boner press against his ass through their combined jeans and his mouth went suddenly dry.

"No," He protested weakly, his voice much more fragile than the growl he’d been aiming for. "No, no, I..." He swallowed. "Please."

He hated the idea of being so vulnerable, of having to _beg_ , of being at the mercy of something as _normal_ as a human. It certainly was a monster, but not the same kind he was used to bruising his knuckles with. He was Dean Winchester, he had saved the world more than once, he had survived forty years in hell, and now he found himself drugged and scared to death in a nothing alley in a nowhere town, mentally preparing himself to be raped. Rage began to build in his gut, and when he realised that it was directed more towards himself than towards his attacker, his anguish increased.

His hands were harshly tugged up behind his back and the touching start again. Dean was powerless, his cheek crushed against the rough surface of the wall as he felt the hoarse breath of his assailant dampening his neck.

"Shhh, it will be a lot more enjoyable if you let yourself go." Promised the man, the trembling lust hardly contained. "Don’t resist. Let go, I know you want it really... Relax Dean, you'll _like it_ , you'll see."

Tears of rage and distress began to burn his eyes, but he forced them back. His whole body ached, protesting, telling him to stop resisting and finally give up, but he knew that doing that would be like sealing his fate. He couldn’t bring himself to just go limp and take it, he knew he’d never forgive himself.

Pushing back his overwhelming headache, he clenched his teeth and ordered his body to move. The man had already undone his belt and was starting to eagerly push down the back of his pants when Dean bucked a first time. The effort made him see stars, and his aggressor only tightened his hold on him, but he concentrated and started again. Once. Twice. In a somewhat crazy hope, he threw his head back to hit the already bloody face of the other, but he missed his target and fell back against the wall, exhausted.

The man behind him began to curse at the resistance, and with the man really starting to lose patience—and, he hoped, concentration—Dean drew on his last reserves to throw himself more violently backwards and the back of his head met the demolished nose of his assailant a second time. The man screamed, freeing Dean to bring his hands to his disfigured face. The hunter took a deep breath of foul air and turned away towards the street, using his now-free hands to put his weight on the wall and not fall over. He was shaking, and once the relief of getting rid of that crushing weight on his back drained away, fear washed over him again. _And now, what?_ He could barely make it two steps without stumbling and a broken nose wasn’t going to deter that asshole for long.

He heard the man behind him swearing viciously, kicking a bag of garbage, swearing again. He had to get away, _now_. Not knowing where he found the energy to move, putting it down to adrenaline, Dean pushed away from the wall and staggered on as quickly as he could, without looking back, the blurred orange glow of the streetlights giving him something to aim for.

He barely make it six strides before a hand grabbed the neck of his t-shirt and pulled him back.

"No!" Shot the man from behind him, his voice thick with rage and pain, "Not so fast, pretty boy, I'm not finished with you yet!"

Dean was thrown to the ground, skinning his palms on the concrete as he caught himself, only to collapse after a kick in the stomach took him by surprise, punching the air from his lungs and flipping him onto his back.

"I could have made you feel good... but no!" The man kicked him again and Dean wheezed at the force of it, curling in on himself as best he could, arms hugging his stomach. "You had to be stubborn! Fucking son..." The ribs. "Of..." An arm. "A bitch!"

Pain exploded in his face as the man's sole connected with his right cheekbone, and Dean let out a yell that echoed off the outer wall of the bar. Maybe it was loud enough to be heard over the jukebox and chatter inside, he could only hope.

"Now, I'm going to hurt you." The man said with a wild grin, a mad gleam in his eyes. Dean would have shivered at the expression if he wasn't already shaking like a leaf; from pain, weariness, fear, what difference did it make? The great Dean Winchester was going to die in a stinking alley with his pants halfway down his legs.

The man straddled him again, pinning his useless legs and forcing Dean’s flailing hands between his knees and his own hips, rendering them just as useless before delivering a fierce punch to the jaw that ripped open his lip and spilled coppery blood over his tongue. Dean tried to prepare as best as he could for the next impact, his body aching with pain and fatigue, whatever hope he’d had of rousing interest from the bar fading. Only, rather than the muffled crack of bone to bone, he heard something else. He thought at first it was a hallucination, a side-effect of the drugs born of the ringing in his ears and a desperate hope.

But it had to be real, because the man above him heard it too.

His fist paused mid-swing, suspended in the air; he stared at Dean with a surprised expression that gradually turned into a mask of horror. The police siren sounding a few blocks away seemed to be heading in this direction.

"Shit!" He cursed, flinging himself off Dean’s prone form, stumbling slightly in panic.

Dean blinked blearily at the man and saw the inner struggle there. Then, he gave Dean one last disgusted look. "Shit, shit, shit!"

And he was running, buckling his belt as he sprinted for the mouth of the alley. Dean rolled onto his stomach to watch as the man vanished around the corner.

He waited a minute without moving, prostrate on the ground, to see if he was coming back. Then two. The police siren passed and moved away, gradually fading in the cool of the night, and the silence that came after was deafening.

Dean lay on the cold floor of the alleyway, his heart drumming at a crazy pace in his chest, his lungs only half-working. He pushed himself up onto his kneed, one arm cradling the other close to his chest while he tried to breathe around that ball of anxiety in his throat. He didn’t pay attention to the trickle of blood that dripped from his lower lip, or the sharp ache in his cheek, or sting of his palms, or any of the various injuries he probably had. He was simply trying, desperately, to recover a normal breathing and to understand what had just happened.

His body shuddered so much that he almost fell back onto the asphalt. Everything hurt, his world was spinning and he was cold. In the middle of a mild summer night, he was really, really cold. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, stuck in a panic loop of the past… it couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes but it felt like lifetimes. He blinked out of his reverie and let his practical side take over; he had to move. He couldn’t stay here, he needed to get somewhere safe, somewhere with a lock on the door where he could tend to his wounds without observation or threat.

He forced himself to ignore the fatigue of his limbs and the pain of his muscles and began to slowly rise. He could do it. He was going to get away from this place, go back to the motel, and take the longest shower of his fucking life. Dean swallowed the sob that stuck in his throat, refusing to give the satisfaction of his tears to his would-be-rapist. He was in pain, that was all. He wasn’t traumatized, he was just hurt.

After long minutes spent just getting up, he tugged his pants up over his hips, his clanking belt buckle the only noise in the too-quiet night. He absently pulled his torn plaid back onto his shoulders and began moving forward, leaving his jacket where it lay behind a pile of garbage. There was nothing in it and he didn’t have the strength to stoop and pick it up anyway.

Each step required a superhuman effort, and he sometimes had to stop to catch his breath or calm the spinning of his vision, but he moved on. He had left the alley, walked down the street from the bar and in a few minutes he had already put several hundred meters between him and this cursed dump. There was no one else on the street, for which he was grateful, although it made the whole town feel ghostly. He passed a bench and willed himself not to sit down, even though his whole body was screaming at him. Firstly, because he didn’t know if he would be able to muster the will to stand back up, but mostly because walking, suffering, breathing... all this prevented him from thinking too much. And Dean didn’t want to think, he wanted to forget.

After a while, he realised he didn’t know where he was going at all, he was sure he hadn’t come this way to the bar from his motel, but he didn’t spend too much thought worrying. He just wanted to get away. He trusted his legs to bring him back to the motel before he gave out. Sweat stuck to his clothes. He feels nauseous again. He just wanted to sleep...

He grumbled when he stumbled on a step in front of him and caught himself on a painted wooden balustrade. By raising his head heavily, he recognized the building in front of him and let out a small hiccup of relief. Of all the places, this was exactly where he wanted to be, and he silently thanked his instinct for bringing him here, before telling it to go fuck itself. If his instinct had been more effective a few hours ago, he wouldn’t have found himself in such a situation in the first place.

Dean climbed the few remaining steps, walked past several doors and finally stopped in front of one of them. The window was dark, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He fell more than leaned against the door jamb of room 23 and knocked his fist against the wood, arm heavy. He waited several long seconds and tried again, his body sliding gradually towards unconsciousness against his will.

Finally, he heard footsteps inside getting closer, but the door remained stubbornly closed. Dean inhaled.

"Cas?" He asked, and he barely recognised his own voice as it left his lips.

Silence answered him again before the door opened, nearly making him lose his balance. Castiel was standing in front of him, wearing a black jogging pants and a shirt too big for him—the one Dean had given him several months ago—his hair a scruffy mess. The angel's face went from thunderous to confused before freezing in horror as he set his eyes on Dean. He seemed to open his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

Dean managed to make a small contrite smile. "Didn’t know where else to go," he mumbled pitifully, as an excuse or an explanation, before another violent wave of dizziness caused him to tip forward.

"Dean!" Castiel exclaimed, finally coming out of his torpor to rush towards the hunter and support him before he collapsed to the floor.

Dean barely felt Cas’ body against his as he was half-dragged inside the room.

"What happened? Who did that to you? Dean. Dean, can you hear me?" Castiel's voice was filled with anxiety, rapidly becoming panic.

Dean groaned in reply and forced his eyes to open again as Castiel sat him on the big bed of the room, maneuvering him so that his back rested against the headboard. His eyes were still struggling to focus, but sitting still relieved his muscles a little and tempered the vertigo. The light suddenly clicked on to his left and he heard Castiel's distant voice addressing him, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t speak and it was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. After several seconds, the voice stopped talking and he felt Castiel moving away from him.

He returned a moment later with the hollow rattle of a first-aid kit and a damp washcloth that he dabbed across Dean’s forehead, the coolness soothing. When Cas’ voice sounded again, Dean could better discern the words.

"Okay. You have to stay awake, Dean, do you understand? I don’t know..." He tried to catch the hunter's gaze and when he did, he seemed to bury his worried blue eyes into his own fuzzy ones. "I don’t know what you took, so try not to sleep, please. You have to drink water, can you do that for me?" And his voice was soft, soft and warm as he lifted the glass of water in front of him, and Dean wanted to cry. But he didn’t.

Dean nodded and raised his hand to rest on Castiel's, gripped around the glass, while the angel slowly lifted it to his lips. The first sips burned his trachea and he didn’t realize how tight his throat was. He emptied half of the glass, before gently pushing Castiel's hand away. Cas obliged and put the glass on the bedside table before taking the washcloth back in his hands. He began to clean Dean’s face, freezing for a moment when Dean flinched before relaxing slightly and indicating for him to continue. The sadness in the angel's gaze seemed to get bigger and Dean cursed himself.

He hated to impose this on his friend. He hated worrying him so much, he wanted to laugh it off, tell him that it was okay, he was fine, that it was just a fight that had gone wrong. He would have liked to lie, but he knew that if Castiel asked him outright, he wouldn’t be able to hide the truth. It was still too fresh in his mind and he was too emotionally drained to come up with anything that would even be remotely convincing, like his mind was swaying at the edge of a precipice. Dean took a breath to try to calm down further and concentrated on staying awake. As Castiel passed the damp cloth over his face, chasing sweat from his forehead, cleaning the blood from his chin, he felt his strength coming back slowly. Not enough to get up again, but maybe enough to talk and keep his eyes open. He now distinctly heard the words of comfort that Castiel was repeating to him, or maybe to himself.

"You’re safe. I'm here, I'm not going to leave you, Dean, I'm here."

He apologised when he passed too close to a wound, making Dean hiss with pain, but his gestures remained tender and careful. And Dean really, really wanted to cry, but only a single tear slipped out and he looked away, embarrassed. If Castiel noticed it, he said nothing and made it disappear with the cloth, always so gently.

After a while, Castiel withdrew his hand and got up to rinse the washcloth. When he came back to perch on the bed, his eyes travelled the length of Dean’s torso, sticking in the places of his shirt tacky with blood, when that gaze met Dean’s, he plucked at the hem of the t-shirt and silently sought the hunter's approval to begin removing his clothes, and Dean gave it with a slight nod. He sometimes forgot how comforting it was when he and Castiel didn’t have to speak words to communicate or understand each other, when what they needed from each other was simple, obvious. It was intimate.

The angel helped him lean forward so he could slide the plaid over his arms and pull it off completely. His torn shirt was harder to remove, Dean’s ribs protested painfully when he tried to raise his arms, and Castiel was forced to use a pair of scissors to cut the fabric before carelessly tossing it aside. It was ruined anyway. Dean shivered as he felt the cool air in the room tickle his naked chest and curled up a little, feeling more exposed than ever. Castiel rested a reassuring hand on his arm and waited patiently until Dean’s heartbeat calmed down. When he finally signaled him to continue, Castiel brought the washcloth to his chest and began gently wiping away the half-dried blood and general grime, careful not to press too much on the bright red areas that stained his ribs, some already starting to bruise.

The initially comfortable silence that had settled between the two men was beginning to get heavier and heavier as Castiel uncovered each of Dean’s wounds. When he had finished with the washcloth, he threw it on the nightstand and opened the first-aid kit. He picked out a tub of ointment without a word and waited once again for Dean's approval to begin applying it.

The cream was cold against his skin, but after the initial shock it actually felt pretty good. The cold he had felt in the alley was a distant memory, Castiel’s heat gradually warming his soul and calming the tremors of his muscles. The pain was now much more bearable and Dean could feel his body gradually begin to obey him properly again. He kept his eyes on the angel's face, as if he was a miracle that might vanish the second he looked away.

"What happened?" Castiel finally asked, his voice deep and distressed. He didn’t look up from the bruise that he was gently rubbing ointment into, but the sound of his voice shook Dean out of the trance into which he had plunged.

The man cleared his throat, uncomfortable now that his mind was a little more lucid. He knew he had to answer that question. He was going to do it, he just needed a little time to put his mind in order. Castiel had the right to know, he repeated to himself. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse for not speaking for so long.

"I was at a bar." He began, hesitating. How was he supposed to explain? Everything had seemed so vague to him when he was there. He almost felt like it had been weeks ago, sitting quietly at a bar sipping a beer, internally whining about his relationship issues.

"Did you get into a fight?" Castiel asked softly when the rest of the sentence didn’t come.

Dean shook his head. "No... no, I mean, not like that." He briefly trapped his lower lip between his teeth, ignoring the cut on the right side of his mouth. "I had a couple before... before that guy spoke to me. He was sitting next to me and I didn’t pay too much attention to him, but he really seemed to want to talk to me. I... I let him buy me a drink." A pause. "Or six."

A spike of panic pierced him when he realized the stupidity of his words. He and Castiel had had a fight, and all he had done with his time to reflect had been to get bought drinks by a stranger in a bar. Dean scowled, shame and guilt whirling around inside him. But Castiel said nothing and continued applying ointment, his gestures always affectionate and benevolent. When he realised Dean was reluctant to continue, he looked up at him encouragingly. Dean obeyed after finding no anger in Castiel's eyes, just softness and support. He let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"I swear he didn’t look... dangerous. But I think he managed to put something in my drink and..." He winced. "He wanted to take me home, and I didn’t think about it too much. I only understood what he meant when…"

He stopped again. Castiel was now focused on the bruise on his cheekbone and his hands were too close, his eyes were too close... Everything. He focused on his own hand playing absently with a piece of blanket by his side.

"When…?" Castiel breathed, sensing his discomfort. Dean felt like a time bomb that the angel was desperately trying to defuse, juggling between cutting the red wire or the blue.

Dean suddenly didn’t want to tell him anything, but he also knew he owed it to Cas. _Castiel had the right to know_. Even if the angel came to hate him later, to call him a moron, a _slut_ , he had the right to understand how stupid and imprudent Dean had been. He kept his eyes on his hand.

"He took me out behind the bar. Away from the street, and when I tried to leave he wouldn’t let me, so I hit him and he shoved me against a wall. And we fought." He said seriously, aware that he was beating around the bush and omitting some details. "And my thoughts weren’t... super clear, you know. So it took me a little time to react, but I managed to push him back and got in a swing or two." He winced again. "He didn’t like that so much, as you can see. But you should have seen his mug, the guy wasn’t exactly nice looking once I was done with him." He let out a laugh that was meant to be proud but sounded flat.

Castiel didn’t hook on to Dean's attempt to lighten the mood, but the corner of his lips tugged up slightly which reassured him a little and gave him the courage to continue.

"Anyway..." Dean cleared his throat, not fooled, and continued to report his story, his body now much less painful. "The cops showed up a little further down the street, and the bastard ran away. And… I ended up here, I guess."

Castiel had now completely finished patching him up, applied bandages to wounds that seemed to need them, and stabilised his ribs with a tighter band. They were bruised and tender, but not broken, which was good. The angel nodded and gently stroked his hand before getting up to put away the first-aid kit and throw the washcloth in the trash, joining Dean's ruined t-shirt.

During this time, the hunter took the opportunity to gauge the state of his body and was satisfied that he could move much better than earlier. When Castiel returned to the room, he had swung his legs off the bed and was already pulling his plaid back on.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked with a frown.

Dean stopped.

"Uh..." He hedged. "Well, I... you know?" When it was obvious that Castiel didn’t know at all, he swallowed and continued. "Thank you so much for taking care of me. And sorry for coming here like this, and... everything else. But it's late, and I'm going to let you go back to sleep. Or continue whatever you were doing before I showed up." He concluded, taking care to focus his gaze only on the buttons of his plaid.

A strange silence invaded the room, and Dean took it as a silent approval, trying to ignore the anvil that weighed down his heart and cut his breath a little.

"You’re kidding, right?" And the angel's voice seemed to crackle with the grace that he didn’t actually have anymore. Dean frowned.

In a few strides, Castiel was on him and grabbed his hands, preventing him from buttoning his plaid any further. The hunter raised his eyes, filled with questions.

"Dean." The deeper voice. "I'm not going to let you through that door, much less in your current state."

"But… we fought and-"

"Screw our stupid fight!" Castiel cut him off, before he suddenly softened and slid his thumb against Dean's scraped palm in a gesture of appeasement. "I don’t care about that." He almost whispers. "It wasn’t important, and I think we both overreacted. I... to be honest, I had planned to come see you tomorrow and apologise, but..." He sighed. "Right now, that's not important. I _don’t_ want you to leave this room, Dean. And even less when the drugs you have ingested have not yet completely left your body. I… I don’t want you to be away from me tonight." He finished quietly, as if the thought was unsettling to him.

Dean wanted to tell him that he was fine, that he wasn’t going to melt and that Cas worried too much. But he couldn’t, because right now he felt very small, small and vulnerable. And loved. And he was choosing the easy thing by indulging in the gentle temptation of comfort and warm, reassuring hands against his, but he couldn’t help it. He no longer had the strength to resist. So he nodded.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay." He agreed.

Castiel smiled softly at him. "Thank you." He whispered simply before bending down to remove Dean's shoes.

Dean let himself sink back onto the bed and watched his shoes leave his feet one after the other, soon followed by his socks, Castiel’s movements still delicate and precise. The angel also helped him take off his pants, taking care not to stretch his ribs too much, then his half-on plaid, and Dean soon found himself in underwear on the bed. Castiel said nothing more, but helped him slip under the covers, then circled the bed to lie next to him under the sheets, turning off the light on his way. Immediately, the angel initiated contact, something that Dean never would have dared to admit he needed, and manoeuvred him into a position that would not cause him too much pain before embracing him from behind. Oh, so he would be the little spoon tonight. _Fine._

The closeness of the warm, reassuring body against his was just the thing he needed to relax completely, and he became surprisingly pliant in his angel’s arms, pressing himself back a little more against Castiel's chest. Someone else, someone less manly, probably would have called it snuggling. Cas let one of his hands rest against his abused belly, scarcely touching the surface of his skin, before raising his arm to press his palm into his. He felt good. For the first time in days, he felt really good. The angel's breath was pleasant on his neck and Dean tightened his fingers around Castiel's hand every time he pressed affectionate kisses against his skin.

Several minutes later, sleep finally began to carry him away when Castiel spoke again.

"You know, you didn’t tell me what he wanted."

"Hm?"

"The man who assaulted you. You didn’t tell me why he did it, what he wanted." Castiel answered simply.

Dean took a short moment to properly process the words and when he did, he immediately tensed. He felt like he had been doused with icy water, and suddenly he was awake. Which was a feat in and of itself given the fatigue his body and brain were experiencing after the events of the evening. A burning ball formed in his throat, and he let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding back.

Of course Castiel wanted to know. Dean had knocked at his door half-dead, and told him that a guy cornered him into an alley, and Castiel had said _nothing_. He had listened, had patched him up, had reassured, but he hadn’t said anything. And Dean couldn’t help but panic slightly, wondering what it might mean. Would Cas hate him? He wouldn’t kick him out, not in his condition, he was too kind for that, but he might turn cold, roll away from him, avoid touching.

"He didn’t tell me." He answered, too quickly, he bit his tongue immediately afterwards. _Dumbass_.

Without even seeing his face, Dean knew that Castiel had just frowned.

"He didn’t tell you?" He repeated slowly, weighing each of his words. The silence stretched out like taffy before Castiel broke it again. "You didn’t even... guess?"

"Cas, listen, I don’t know, I was in a daze. I'm tired okay? So if we could just…" He left his sentence hanging and shifted his head on the pillow, his movement swallowed by the darkness of the room. Running away.

Castiel didn’t answer. The minutes passed and Dean couldn’t relax his muscles or calm the frantic beat of his heart. Judging by the angel's breathing on his neck, Castiel wasn’t sleeping either, he just hugged him, probably listening to the throbbing panic inside his chest. But he didn’t say anything. When the tension became too unbearable, Dean gently loosened Castiel's grip around his chest in search of air, more _distance_. When even that wasn’t enough and his breathing sped up, the angel pressed another kiss on his neck.

"You’re okay?" He asked innocently, knowing the answer. But he wanted to hear it from Dean's mouth.

Dean nodded roughly and made an extra effort to calm his breathing, but failed miserably. It snagged to close to the idea that he was a constant failure, either too harsh and obstinate, or too fragile and miserable. Sometimes, often, he didn’t really know why Castiel was there, enduring him. Watching him get violent during a particularly complex case or appeasing him after a nightmare that leaves him shaking and groggy. He didn’t even tolerate himself half the time, so he didn’t know how Cas dealt with him _all the time_.

Shyly, he shook his head, knowing that the angel was going to feel it. He couldn’t just fake fine anymore, the way he’d been doing for years—all his life—before Castiel was there every day, then every night, then every second by his side; to watch him withdraw into himself, to understand him, then to gently push him to open up. Castiel had managed to patiently remove every fragment from his broken armour that he had spent so much time building around him, and that never failed to amaze him. It scared him a little too, because he had never been so transparent with anyone, in all his life, not even to Sam. But now, when Castiel told him that everything would be all right, he believed it. _He believed him_.

"I know what he wanted." He whispered, and the silence of the room made him feel like screaming. “He didn’t say but he didn’t have to, you know?”

The angel moved imperceptibly behind him, coming a little closer to give him support, a pillar against which to lean. He laid another kiss on his neck, patient, indulgent.

"I... do you need me to say it? You know what he wanted, Cas. What do guys like that always want when they drug someone and take them out back?”

This time, it was Castiel who stiffened behind him, his thumb stopped caressing the inside of his wrist. He didn’t move, the air he exhaled barely even tickled his neck, and Dean realised he was in the same state himself. And unnatural stillness encompassing both of them. Was Cas… angry? Disappointed? Disgusted? Or maybe all at once.

When Castiel spoke again, his voice was strangled, breathless. "Did he…?"

"No!" Dean added quickly. "No. I was barely conscious half the time, but I know he didn’t... no. But Cas, if that cop car hadn’t passed near us, or if I didn’t have such a stupid high tolerance for alcohol, or if it had taken me half a second longer to figure it out, then in all likelihood, I’d still be in that alley."

Strangely, he was scared. Even more scared than when Sam had broken his arm when they were kids, jumping off that garage roof. Even more than when Castiel had come back seriously wounded from a fight against his brothers. Even more than when the man had pressed him against the wall of that alley. Because Castiel didn’t move behind him, didn’t speak, and Dean felt like his heart stopped.

"I’m sorry." Dean finally said, his throat tight and his voice so small. "I’m so sorry." He knew that if he opened his mouth again, a sob would come out without him being able to stop it.

The angel behind him released his breath and squeezed him a little harder, even though it hurt his bruised ribs, Dean didn’t care. He deserved nothing less.

"Dean, why are you apologising?"

Dean swallowed at the broken sound of Castiel's voice. He shook his head, his eyes burning fiercely and his throat tight. He felt dirty, unclean somewhere deep and so unworthy of Castiel in that moment.

"Because..." he hesitated, his voice faltering. "Because you don’t deserve that. You deserve a hundred times better than that, than me. And I know I was so stupid tonight, I'm sorry, I promise you that I didn’t want anything of that. I swear. Cas, you have to believe me, I didn’t want to, I..."

His breath was short and too-quick and he could now feel some tears escaping from his eyes, wetting his cheeks, and he hated himself. His tired brain mixed everything up. His voice was strangled and his body trembled again, and he hated that Cas was here, having to _witness_ it.

Within seconds, the angel behind him had straightened on one elbow and let go of his hand to touch his jaw with his fingertips, telling him to look at him, but Dean barely heard, his eyes fixed on the thin sheet covering his legs.

"Hey, hey, Dean. Dean!" Then softer. "Breathe."

Dean shook his head, too panicked to function normally.

"I'm sorry to be like that." He blurted. "I'll understand if you're angry or... or that I'm disgusting you Cas, I get it. You'd be right to feel that way. And that’s- it doesn’t matter if… it doesn’t matter."

A sob ripped from his throat, drowning out any other words he might have said. He felt a bit like he was dying.

"No." Castiel murmured, his voice so close to his ear. "No, no, no."

The angel forced Dean to lie on his back, ignoring his attempts to push him away, and shifted his leg over Dean’s to straddle his hips, taking every precaution to hold his weight in his knees so he could avoid putting pressure on his wounds. The new position forced Dean to look at him, really look at him.

Dean shifted under him, uncomfortable, feeling suddenly cornered, trapped. A gust of fear gripped him when he remembered feeling the same way in the alley, and he let out a strangled moan. He felt Castiel's hands against his cheeks, forcing him to look at him as the angel took a deep breath, as if to give himself courage.

"Dean." His tone was firm, but not commanding. "I want you to listen to me now."

Which Dean did. He didn’t nod, didn’t look completely at Castiel's eyes, but he focused on his voice and waited. Castiel nodded slowly, his eyes stuck on Dean’s face, choosing his next words carefully.

"I'm not mad at you." He said. "I'm very far from being mad at you, and even further from being disgusted, do you understand?" He ran his tongue over his lips to wet them and Dean didn’t look up, but his breathing had calmed from erratic. "I'm angry, but not against you, never against you. I... Honestly, I want to find the monster who did this to you and..." He exhaled to calm his trembling voice. "Anyway. It doesn’t matter, you're the most important thing right now. Why do you think I'm mad at you?"

Dean hesitated. He swallows, sighed softly.

"You’re so quiet." He whispered. It sounded a little ridiculous said out loud but it was the truth, Cas only ever got so quiet in dire situations when he was furious.

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again, gently stroking one of Dean’s cheeks with his thumb.

"I didn’t realise. It’s not very quiet inside my head. When I opened the door and I saw you like that... I panicked so much that I thought I was going to collapse with you, but you needed me, so I just…" He let out a bitter laugh. "I think I went into autopilot mode somehow. But I remained silent because… I was a little shocked, and also because I was scared. I was afraid for you and I didn’t react in the best way. All I wanted was to touch your forehead and make everything disappear, like I used to, erase your memory even if you wanted me to. I'm sorry." A gleam of regret passed in his eyes. "But it's not because I'm blaming you, Dean, I promise. It’s not your fault, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. You’re not responsible for someone else’s complete lack of humanity."

"I should have realised sooner… I shouldn’t have left that bar with him," Dean blushed awkwardly. Castiel leaned forward to put his forehead against his, gently rubbing their noses together.

"No. It doesn’t work that way, Dean. You were drugged, and these drugs are designed specifically to make it hard to process anything. It’s really not your fault. And if you want my opinion, I'm..." Castiel bit his lower lip, uncertainly. "I do not want you to take what I'm going to say the wrong way, but I'm proud of you. Because you fought with all your strength, and I know it must have been difficult for you, but you didn’t let it happen easily. And I'm incredibly proud of you. You're so brave, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes, his heartbeat a little less distraught now that he smelled Castiel's scent near him. It was like going outside after a storm, or breathing while peeling an orange. It was a little spicy too, but mostly sweet. It was the smell of clean sheets. In the end, it smelled home, and the hunter managed to reduce the trembling of his body by inspiring full lungs.

"I didn’t manage to totally push him back."

"But you said no." The angel said with conviction. "You said no, and from that moment, you fought, Dean. And even if you hadn’t said anything at all, it doesn’t matter. You didn’t want it, and you never should have been placed in that position." His tone softened and Dean finally found the courage to flit his eyes over to the endless blue. "But it happened anyway. And you are here. And I... I know it's hard for you right now. I don’t know what you feel, but you have the right to express it as you want. But please... please don’t shut me out. Please."

Castiel's gaze—so close to him, so close—was deep and filled with love. And Dean _shook_. He shuddered for the last time, shaken by everything he saw in those too-honest eyes, too overwhelmed to truly understand. Because in the depths of his eyes, Castiel assured him that he was worthy, that he was enough. His chest swelled with a feeling that was difficult to explain, but somewhere, Dean realised he was happy. Relieved, but mostly desperately in love. So yes, when Castiel told him that everything would be fine, he believed him. And maybe it was a mistake, maybe everything was going to fall apart suddenly, but for now, he trusted his angel.

Dean let out a trembling breath that echoed on the lips of the man above him. He was so emotional that he hardly knew what to do with it, paralyzed by the piercing gaze of his companion. So he did the first thing that came to his mind to channel the whole thing.

Dean embraced Castiel's neck with one hand, running his fingers through the base of his hair, while the other found his place on his cheek, his eyes fascinated. With a firm and desperate movement, he drew the angel to him and put their lips together. Castiel immediately responded to the contact and guided him in a slow and deep kiss, devouring, _perfect_.

Dean felt like he was imploding and being reborn at the same time, it almost felt like it was his first time he kissing the angel. But that wasn’t true at all, They had shared countless contacts like this in the past. They had kissed to say hello in the morning and wish each other good night. They had shared countless enthusiastic and passionate kisses when making love, the groans of one getting lost in the mouth of the other, and other, much more tender and lazy kisses, made to reassure, to remind them that they were there, just because they could. Castiel kissed Dean when he walked too close to him in the library, encouraging him in his research, and Dean kissed Cas when they shared a shower in the morning, gently massaging his skull, washing his hair. There were kisses to say, "I love you" and others to say, "don’t leave". But Dean still had the impression of rediscovering the sensation of Castiel's lips against his, and it was just exhilarating, it sounded right.

They kissed for a long time, separating only a few millimeters when the air ran out before starting again, their eyes clinging, their fingers tightening around the body of the other. Sometimes, Dean bit the angel's lips in their kisses, sounding like an "I need you", before the other one groaned a little and redoubled his ardour, simply replying, "I'm here." It was feverish and delicate at the same time, and Dean loved it. When they finally parted with a little wet noise, their foreheads almost touching each other, breathing hard, he allowed himself to smile a little. Not much, just enough to raise the corner of his eye, but the face of Castiel returned it to him with the same tenderness.

"Thank you." He said honestly.

Castiel shook his head, his smile widening, as if to say it was nothing, and Dean ran his fingers through his hair to mess it up even more, again silent because of the light that seemed to emanate from the man in front of him.

"You know that I love you?" Castiel asked, kissing the corner of his eye to chase the last tears that had accumulated there.

"Yeah, I think I know." And Dean let out at laugh before kissing him quickly half-heartedly. "I love you too." He whispered. "I love you so much." A pause. "And I'm sorry for acting like a moron during the hunt, and not telling you where I was."

Castiel gave him a surprised look and then burst into a loud laugh. That had been the main reason for their fight, and Dean knew that Castiel had just been worried about him but he didn’t need a babysitter, dammit! When the angel regained some of his calm, he shook his head and descended from Dean's hips to lie beside him and face him, his hand finding its own between their two bodies.

"It seems so unimportant right now, that argument." He explained to Dean's questioning eyes, a smile on his face. "Well, I mean, yes, it's important because I don’t like it when you rush in headfirst and I'm not there to help you, even though I know you can handle it by yourself. But it’s... it doesn’t matter. Not now, okay?"

And Dean smiled shyly and nodded. Not now.

They took several minutes to find a comfortable position to finally fall asleep, heads and hearts much lighter. Dean ended up with his head in the hollow of the angel's neck, inhaling his scent with satisfaction, while Castiel had put a possessive arm around his belly, taking care not to put pressure on the sensitive area. It was only when they stopped moving and Castiel pressed a last kiss on the top of his skull that he realized how exhausted he was. His body ended up fully shutting into standby and he fell asleep quickly against Castiel.

He wasn’t looking forward to waking up, to relive what had happened in painful sobriety. He would probably blush a little, maybe get angry, certainly embarrassed, about his breakdown. But he also knew that tomorrow, everything would be a little less hard. Day after day, things would become more bearable until he could live with it. And on the really bad days, he would have Castiel to help him get through, and at that thought, Dean relaxed a little more in his sleep.

Tomorrow, when he woke up, the angel would be at his side. And that made him a little more eager to open his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... don't kill me? Yet?  
> Hope you enjoyed this one, I'm quite proud of it actually. Please let me know if you liked it by leaving kudos or a little comment.  
> Also, come and say hi on Tumblr : @naitiaclo960writings  
> Bye :)


End file.
